


Musei e Cornetti

by DoctorLennon007



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Comedy, Funny, Gen, History, Italy, Lost - Freeform, Tourists, quirky, scavenger hunt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3505223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorLennon007/pseuds/DoctorLennon007
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As punishment for sleepwalking, Beatles Ringo Starr and John Lennon are given a task by their manager:  a scavenger hunt through Florence, Italy.  The pair rush through the foreign city, usually on a time limit, sometimes getting lost, and more often than not having a blast!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drunken Elephants

**For now, let it suffice to say that I do not own the Beatles.**

**A/N:  I know, you expected me just to start one multi-chapter fic today, not two!  But here it is, a bit of fun, John, and Ringo to counter the mood, Paul, and George of "Murder Most Discreet."  Enjoy!**

 

* * *

 

With a creak, the hotel door swung open into the yellow light from the streetlamps. Fans and press alike shouted and pushed to get close to the famous man now descending the steps to the cobbled sidewalk.

"Mr. Starr!" shouted one reporter, his heavy Italian accent clouding his words. "Where are you going?"

The famous man muttered something inaudible, gripping the rusticated façade of the Florentine hotel.

"Why are you in your pajamas?" asked another reporter shrilly. "And why are your eyes closed?"

"Is this a statement against the war?" bellowed a third reporter.

"Ish a statement," mumbled the famous man, "'Gainst drunken elephants."

Silence fell over all near enough to hear the famous man's remark. The screaming of the fans too far to hear still assaulted the ears of everyone present.

"Er . . . sorry?" inquired one reporter timidly.

"See, people are making 'em drunk," explained the famous man, his eyes still closed as he gestured expansively with his hands. "The gondola drivers are giving them too much stock."

The famous man paused intelligently, swayed a little, and then turned around.

"Have a nice Tuesday, everyone," he called over his shoulder, retreating back into the hotel. His housecoat flapped behind him as the door swung shut.

"But . . . it's Saturday . . . ." said the first reporter hesitantly.

 

* * *

 

Brian Epstein bent down and turned off the television with unnecessary force.

"What were you _doing_?" he growled, turning to glare at the four young men seated on the faded sofa opposite.

Ringo paled and shrunk back into the cushions as far as he could. Paul winced sympathetically. John valiantly attempted to hide the giggles trying to bubble out of his mouth. George got up, mumbling something about tea.

"SIT DOWN!" yelled Brian. George raised his hands in surrender and fell back onto the couch, oozing boredom.

"Sorry?" whimpered Ringo meekly.

"They've been trying to interpret your statement," said Brian, taking a menacing step forward. "People are saying that you're siding with African poachers against intellectuals trying to raise money to save animals like the elephants."

"But I'm not!" moaned Ringo. "I don't even remember that bit you showed us on the telly!"

"Were you . . . _drunk_ , perhaps?" asked Brian, taking another step forward.

"I think he was sleepwalking," piped in Paul. "I remember him getting up and going out in the middle of the night."

"You're going to have to make up for this somehow, you know," said Brian.

"I say he's on hotel cleanup duty for the week!" said John excitedly.

"You're already on cleanup duty for the year, Lennon, so don't distract me," snapped Brian. John blew a large bubble of his gum and popped it loudly.

"Why not just get Ringo to explain all this mess to the press and have done with it?" suggested George.

In the kitchen behind them, a shrill whistle pierced the air.

"I really have to get that tea," muttered George, leaping up and running out of the room.

"Actually," mused Brian, "This mess has caused me a lot of pointless trouble. So I think I'm going to cause you some pointless trouble in return."

Ringo gulped. Paul squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"I'm giving you a Florence-wide scavenger hunt," announced Brian smugly. "You may choose one friend to help you complete the challenge. If you do not choose to accept, I assure you I can find another equally tedious and annoying task, such as vacuuming all the ceilings in an apartment building, or making an alphabetical list of all the city streets in England, or – "

"I'll take the scavenger hunt!" interrupted Ringo hurriedly.

"Whom do you chose to help you decipher clues?" inquired Brian.

"John," said Ringo immediately. "He's smartest."

John stuck out his tongue at Paul.

"So much for having each other's backs, Ringo," sniffed Paul, storming out of the room to join George in the kitchen.

Brian rubbed his hands together happily.

"Your first task," said the manager, "is to locate the painting 'Young Girl with a Candle' by Gottfried Schalcken. You have four hours to complete your assignment."

"Can we bring along a guidebook?" asked John quickly. "As we're not familiar with Florence, or even Italy for that matter."

"You may bring a map only," answered Brian loftily. "Good luck."

He strode out of the hotel room, letting the door swing shut behind him. Ringo and John glanced at each other, the former terrified, the latter elated.

"Let's go!" beamed John.

* * *

 

**A/N:  Reviews are much appreciated :0)**


	2. Palazzo Strozzi

**Thank you so much to my wonderful reviewers - FictionPress:  sweetladyjane2012; WattPad:  PurlyandGirly, NJ2001, leah9712, Marvel_is_best, Macca40, MaccasWeirdFriend, omgringo, and ThisBirdHasFlown; Archive of Our Own:  Swimmer girl 17**

* * *

 

"So we're looking for a painting?" confirmed Ringo, pulling the map out of his pocket and flapping it open. He followed John down the front steps of their hotel to the cobbled street below. A Vespa zoomed past, a street vendor hawked his tourist souvenirs, locals bustled past, a bus horn honked; the Italian language rippled around the two Englishmen like a babbling brook around a pair of smooth, grey stones.

"Yeah," replied John, striding down the narrow sidewalk confidently. "But I doubt it's large enough to be on the map."

Burying his nose in the map, Ringo ignored him.

"So, we're here," said Ringo, pointing. "Oof!" he added, crashing into a middle-aged woman in a flower-print dress.

She glared down at the drummer through her cat's-eye glasses. John strolled on, oblivious.

"Sorry," muttered Ringo meekly, looking down at the grimy blocks of grey stone of the sidewalk.

"Guarda dove va!" shouted the woman angrily.

John realized that he was missing his companion and turned to see Ringo's predicament. He smirked and stepped out of the way of other pedestrians to watch the show. The guitarist leaned nonchalantly against the heavy, rusticated blocks of the nearest building.

Another motorbike roared by. Ringo took this opportunity to squeak and dodge around the woman; he raced to catch up with John.

"So where are we?" asked John, peering over Ringo's shoulder at the map.

"Here, I think," said Ringo, pointing to the map. "The Via della Spada, see?"

John pulled a pen out of his pocket and marked the spot Ringo had pointed to.

"You see a painting anywhere?" asked John snidely.

"No," replied Ringo, looking up from the map at John.

John leapt back into the middle of the sidewalk, blocking the path of a rather startled old man.

"'Scuse me, d'you know where we can find 'Young Girl with a Cobra' by Gandalf Slackin'?" he inquired, leaning toward the balding man. The man leaned away, dusting imaginary filth off of his long, black coat.

"Non parle Inglese," sniffed the man. _And a good thing, too_ , hung on the thick summer air as the Italian man carefully sidestepped John and continued down the barely-a-meter-wide sidewalk.

"Wasn't it 'With a Candle'?" asked Ringo.

"That does make more sense," replied John. "Come on, then!"

With a cocky grin, John set off in the direction they'd been going.

"But you don't even know where –" started Ringo helplessly.

"You aren't going to get anything done standing there all day!" called John over his shoulder. Ringo sighed and ran after his bandmate.

"This place looks big and official," said John, staring up at the rusticated façade of the tan, stone palazzo across the street. "And it's open to the public." He pointed at the arched doorway, through which people were steadily trickling into the inner courtyard.

"We're at the intersection of Via della Spada and the Via de Torn- Torub- er, never mind," Ringo informed him, looking up from the map. "But there's also the Via della Vigna Noova, and there's another street here too, but I can't read the name of that one, it's too small."

John scratched the back of his head, looked both ways, and darted across the cobbled street.

"Hey!" complained Ringo, running after him. "That's dangerous! Those motorbikes go about a hundred miles an hour!"

John and Ringo dashed into the palazzo. The cool shade of the hall to the courtyard draped itself over them, sheltering them from the blast of the August sun.

"D'you know where the 'Youngling with Candelabra' is?" John asked a horsey-faced woman passing them.

"The _what_?" she replied in a heavy American accent.

"Never mind," muttered Ringo, dragging John away. "You can't just keep asking people like that, nobody'll know where it is!" he hissed at the guitarist.

"D'you know where the 'Young Guild with Cocoa' is?" John loudly asked an old man in tweed and a bow tie as the two Beatles passed him through the courtyard.

"Do you mean the 'Young Girl with a Candle?' by Gottfried Schalcken?" inquired the older man, his accent unmistakably posh London.

"Yes! That's it!" exclaimed Ringo, beaming.

"That's in the Palazzo Pitti," replied the man. "I'm afraid you've got a ways to go."

"We have a map," John informed him, yanking the map out of Ringo's back pocket. The drummer yelped in surprise.

The old man took the map in his veined, wrinkled hands and peered at it through thick, tortoiseshell glasses.

"We're here," he said, pulling a fountain pen out of his breast pocket and delicately marking the spot in blue ink, "at the Palazzo Strozzi. I would highly recommend the café's _cornetti_ , if you have the time."

He looked up expectantly. John and Ringo frantically shook their heads. John wiped a bit of sweat from his damp brow.

"No matter," replied the old man, turning back to the map. "You want to go . . . here." The metal tip of his pen drifted just above the map, over the Arno, to a spot bordering a green splotch of park. The man pressed the pen precisely onto the spot, leaving behind a decisive dot.

The old man looked back up at John and Ringo. The pair beamed.

"Ta!" breathed Ringo. John grabbed the map back from the old man.

"Are you trying to complete a paper at the last minute?" asked the old man.

"Nah, we're trying to appease our insane manager," replied Ringo quickly. "You see, I blabbed about drunken elephants while I was asleep and the press hate me, and he cleaned it up, and to fix it I have to vacuum ceilings, but I chose to do this instead."

"Bye, Professor!" said John in a falsetto, twisting his hand at the old man in a royal wave. He grabbed Ringo's hand and dragged the drummer back across the courtyard to the bustling Via de Tornabuoni.

* * *

**A/N:  Kind of a nothing chapter, but I think there's some fun stuff :0)  Hope you all are enjoying this and "Murder Most Discreet"!**


	3. A Bit More Dramatic

**A/N:  I actually don't remember which room of the Palatine Gallery this painting is in, so I just stuck it in the first room to streamline things.  And John and Ringo are actually quite lucky, because there are a lot more galleries in the Pitti Palace; the place is just enormous!  Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers:  MaccaRockas, ThisBirdHasFlown, Macca40, Swimmer girl 17, sweetladyjane2012, MaccasWeirdFriend, and NJ2001  :0)**

* * *

John and Ringo stared up at the imposing façade of the Palazzo Pitti. The enormous, tan palace regally dominated the sloped _piazza_ in front of it. A few tourists and a couple of beleaguered university students scuttled across the sandy bricks of the square.

Ringo turned to look at John.

"It's awfully . . . big, isn't it?" inquired the drummer hesitantly.

John smirked and flipped an obscene gesture at the monolithic stone palace. Ringo groaned feebly as John promptly skipped across the echoing square to the enormous, arched doorway to the palace.

"I'm the King of Scandinavia," announced John, flashing his leather pocket notebook officially in front of the security guard's nose. John whipped the paper back down again before the guard even had a chance to go fully cross-eyed in an attempt to read it.

"And this is my valet," added John, gesturing dismissively to Ringo, who was miserably fumbling with a cigarette a couple of meters away.

John strode confidently into the palace. Ringo trotted after him, muttering a hasty apology to the bemused guard.

"You know, we could have just bought tickets like normal people," pointed out Ringo in a hushed voice as the two Beatles strode down the shady colonnade that bordered the immense interior courtyard.

"We're playing James Bond in Florence, and you want to behave like _normal_ people?" inquired John incredulously.

The guitarist led the way, racing up the wide, smooth staircase two-at-a-time.

Ringo followed him, uncertainly calling out, "How d'you know this is the right way?"

"The sign back there said the Palatine Gallery's this way," replied John. "Paintings are in galleries, right?"

The two young men raced up several flights of the smooth, pale grey stairs before coming to the entrance to the gallery.

Feigning nonchalance, John strolled into the first room of the gallery, his hands in his pockets. Ringo trotted after him.

The Liverpudlians found themselves drowning in gold leaf, ornate plaster, and deep red wallpaper. Priceless paintings coated the walls from floor to ceiling, jammed in wherever possible. Their extremely ornate gold frames dwarfed the Renaissance and baroque masterpieces trapped within. A marble, neoclassical sculpture of a nude Venus stood on a plinth in the middle of the ornate room. A pair of tall, slender windows overlooked the vast, brick square in front of the palace. The only other person in the room was a man with black hair wearing a grey, bespoke suit; he examining one of the paintings in the far corner.

John smirked appreciatively at the sculpture of Venus.

"D'you think anybody would notice if I touched it?" he asked Ringo cheekily.

"We're on a mission, Lennon!" snapped Ringo. "I don't want to be stuck vacuuming ceilings!"

John crossed his arms and exaggerated a pouting frown.

"How are we supposed to pick out the right painting?" wondered Ringo aloud. "It's like finding a needle in a haystack!"

"D'you think it could be that one?" suggested John, pointing at the painting directly opposite them. A young woman had been painted in oil, shimmering a little against the shadowy black background. Her tantalizing smile glimmered from the candle she held. A pearl earring dangled down, brushing against her jaw.

Ringo smiled. "That looks like a girl with a candle to me!"

He bounded over to the painting. John followed, casting one last glance back at Venus.

Ringo started patting the gold frame, looking rather like a police officer frisking someone under arrest. The drummer's calloused fingers tumbled across the elaborate curls and whorls of gold-leaf-coated wood.

A thin envelope tumbled to the floor from behind the painting. John snatched it from the ground. The two Beatles leaned over the envelope as John pulled out a single, thin sheet of paper.

"You have completed the first task," said the typewritten letter. "For future stages, you will need to be able to decipher codes; for now, let us stick to riddles."

"Codes?" interjected Ringo incredulously.

John grinned. "Told you it was like James Bond!" he whispered.

They turned back to the letter.

"Your next destination is a little more . . . dramatic than this one," read John aloud.

" _More_ dramatic?" wondered Ringo aloud. "This building is the size of a – a – a really huge building! How can it get _more_ dramatic?"

"Shh!" hissed John. "Codes . . . riddles . . . next destination's more dramatic . . . Ah, here we are: 'It was once the stage of conquerors."

A pigeon cooed outside the window. The man in the bespoke suit adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and turned a page in his guidebook.

"Is that it?" asked Ringo.

John nodded. "Let's go!" he grinned.

The guitarist strolled out of the room, patting Venus on the head on the way out.

"I hope this is the last clue," Ringo sighed, trudging out of the room after John.

The famous musicians' Beatle boots echoed against the smooth steps and the white walls of the airy stairwell. A cloud fluttered briefly across the yellow Italian sun. Laughter bubbled up from the _piazza_ below and drifted through the rippled old glass to the man in the bespoke suit.

The man in the bespoke suit carefully bent down as though to tie his shoelace; instead, he subtly popped off the Oxford's heel and pulled out a small, black, electronic device. He pushed a button on its side, and murmured into it, "The candidates have succeeded their first task."

* * *

**A/N:  Ooh, a mysterious cliffhanger!  Sorry guys, this one won't be resolved for a while yet ;0)**


	4. Rhyme and Reason

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews: StormerBeatsBad, MaccasWeirdFriend, leah9712, PurlyandGirly, NJ2001, ThisBirdHasFlown, anakinbridger541, Swimmer girl 17, and Sunderious**

**FYI: The man in the bespoke suit from the last chapter is in his 30s or so; the professor is much older. They're not the same person. Just to clarify :0)**

* * *

"Stage . . . ." muttered Ringo, licking his tiny plastic gelato spoon contemplatively. "Are there any theatres in Florence?"

"We've already been over this," sighed John, pausing to lean on the stone wall of the Renaissance bridge they were crossing. He looked down the river to the next bridge, which had houses built directly onto it.

"That's the Ponte Vecchio, I think," mused Ringo, following John's gaze to the neighbouring bridge. "It's a bridge, not a theatre."

"Since when did you know all about Italian bridges?" inquired John, turning to Ringo.

"Since I looked at Brian's guidebook yesterday," replied Ringo sensibly.

"It's gorgeous, isn't it?" said John, gesturing to the river, the riverside houses, and the bridge beyond.

Ringo joined John at the edge of the bridge. The pair of Beatles stared out across the sun-flecked water and the orange plaster facades of the buildings on either side of the river. The Italian sky softly arced the scene. Behind them, motorbikes and cars zoomed past, and pedestrians strolled by. Italian, French, English, Japanese: a world's worth of languages bubbled across the stones of the bridge as the water slipped underneath.

"Ah, it's good to be alive," sighed Ringo, satisfied. He scraped the last of his melting chocolate gelato out of its paper cup.

"Lions!" exclaimed John, whipping around with a grin to face Ringo.

"What did I do wrong?" wondered Ringo, bewildered.

"It's not what you did wrong, it's what I did right!" replied John happily, racing down the bridge to the other side. "Come on, Ringo, we have to go get a new map!" he called back over his shoulder.

…

"Ta!" said Ringo, pressing some _lire_ into the gypsy street vendor's hand. The vendor grinned toothlessly and shoved the money deeply into a pouch in her skirts.

Ringo unfurled his purchase, a map of Florence with bus routes and schedules printed on it.

"We need to figure out how to get to that Roman thing," rushed John. "Maybe this one? Or this one?"

The guitarist pointed at a couple of spots on the map.

Ringo sighed and looked up from the map to stare around at the _piazza_ they were in. A tall, tan stone block of a building stood above them, complete with crenellated bell-tower. Ringo and John were standing next to a fountain at the building's corner; in the fountain stood a sculpture of a very regal Neptune, who seemed to frown down on the English tourists.

"Or maybe here?" muttered John, pointing at a spot in the middle of the Arno River.

"You have to wear your glasses to read a map, John," groaned Ringo.

"You find it, then," sulked John.

"Find what? You still haven't explained anything yet!" complained Ringo, scratching his head.

"It's this Roman theatre somebody was telling me about, I think it was Neil," said John quickly. "It's just outside of Florence, in a town that rhymes with holy."

Ringo blinked. "You're looking for a town that rhymes with holy?"

At their feet, a small flock of pigeons pecked at a discarded sandwich. They cooed eagerly at the two young men for more food.

"Are you needing some help?" asked someone in a heavy Italian accent. John and Ringo looked up to see the street vendor giving them a gap-toothed grin.

"Can you help us find a town that rhymes with holy?" asked John.

"Something oh-li," helped Ringo slowly.

"Ah, Fiesole!" exclaimed the old Italian woman. "Sisisisisi!"

"Look, it's right here!" exclaimed Ringo, pointing to an edge of the map. Sure enough, a small arrow was labelled "to Fiesole."

"Thanks!" said Ringo as John folded up the map.

The woman extended a hand, palm up.

Ringo delved through his pockets and gave her another coin.

"Grazie mille," said the woman.

"Let's go find a Roman theatre in Fiesole!" exclaimed John impatiently.


	5. Sophocles and Suitcases

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, another chapter! Thanks so much to my reviewers: Swimmer girl 17, omgringo, IcedFireFrenzy, Macca40, Sunderious, MaccasWeirdFriend, ThisBirdHasFlown, PurlyandGirly, NJ2001, anakinbridger541, StormerBeatsBad, and leah9712

Several miscommunications and unexpected detours later, John Lennon and Ringo Starr hopped off a dirty city bus onto the cobblestones of Fiesole's main square.

John shook his hair out of his eyes and pulled the map out of his back pocket with a flourish. He peered at it, pretending not to notice Ringo's loud groan.

"So, we go down that street," directed John, pointing vaguely to their right, "And then we take the second left, and the third building on the right is the entrance to the theatre."

Ringo closed his eyes and took a deep breath before replying, "John, Fiesole isn't even on that map."

"Yeah it is!" defended John, pointing to a spot on the map.

"If you put on your glasses, you'll see that that really says 'S.S. Annunziata,'" Ringo informed John, snatching the map from the latter's grasp. "And from now on, I'm the official navigator."

"Does that make me the groovy action hero?" inquired John eagerly.

"But I want to be the groovy action hero!" moaned Ringo.

"Then can I be navigator?" said John shrewdly, adding, "Hey, look, that sign says 'archeologico' on it. Sounds like an archeological ruin to me!"

John led the way across the almost empty square to the sign. Ringo followed in his wake, miserably failing at correctly folding the map.

John leaned on the ledge of the ticket window. The large-nosed young woman inside quirked an eyebrow suspiciously and leaned away from him a little.

"Two tickets, one adult and one child," said John confidently, winking at her.

The ticket seller opened the cash register drawer and pulled out the tickets John had requested.

"2500 lire," she requested, glaring at John expectantly.

John smiled innocently and batted his eyes at her for a second. Then, he flipped his head around to stare at Ringo.

Ringo sighed and fished around in his pockets for the required change. With a weary smile, he stepped forward and handed it to the young woman.

She frowned at him.

"Wait, are you . . ." she started in a surprisingly good English accent.

"Yes, we're Herman's Hermits, glad you recognized us," interrupted John with a cheeky grin. "We've been on television, you know."

With that, he grabbed Ringo's hand and dragged him into the archeological area.

John and Ringo found themselves at the top of a small hill, which sloped gently down to a line of dark green cypress trees. Built into the side of the incline was the ancient Roman theatre. Its worn, stone steps curved in a perfect semicircle down to the stage, a semicircular slab of the same cracked, white stone. Little tufts of moss and grass grew in the crevices and pockmarks of the step-like benches.

Ringo scratched his head. "This is a theatre?" he wondered. "Why isn't there a roof?"

"Romans didn't need roofs," replied John confidently, strolling across the grass to the theatre.

Ringo followed him. "But what about when it rains?"

"They'd put on a play about rain, then," said John. "Obviously."

"That doesn't sound right . . . ." replied Ringo thoughtfully.

"Come on, we have to find the next clue!" shouted John, leaping down the stone benches two-at-a-time. Ringo remained at the top of the otherwise empty theatre, scanning it for any clues. The drummer's eyes came to rest on a small, grey-green lizard scampering across the ancient stones.

"Look, it's a little lizard!" he called down to John.

"To be or not to be, that is the question!" proclaimed John from the stage, holding out his arms to an imaginary audience of ghosts and falling to his knees. A wisp of velveteen cloud drifted across the sun, and the Romans and Etruscans rose for a standing ovation from the curved benches, their ghostly togas tossed by a slight gasp of wind. The cloud slipped away from the sun, and the ghosts vanished from John's mind.

"I don't see any clue, do you?" called Ringo.

"Maybe he hasn't placed it yet," replied John. The guitarist's voice bounced off the steps up to Ringo, who marveled at the theatre's acoustics.

"Or you were wrong," snorted Ringo. "Let's go back to Florence and tell him we give up."

John shrugged. "Fine by me."

He leapt back up the steps and followed Ringo back to the ticket booth, where another tourist was purchasing a ticket.

"Grazie mille," said the tourist softly, pushing his aviator sunglasses up the bridge of his nose a little and straightening the cufflinks on his grey suit. He picked up his stainless steel suitcase from the pavement with his right hand and strolled toward the archeological site.

"Get out the bus map, then, _navigator_ ," John said snidely to Ringo.

Striding quickly toward the entrance to the archeological site, the tourist bumped into John's shoulder abruptly.

"Oi, what was that for?" complained John indignantly, glaring at the tourist's back. The tourist ignored him, putting his hands into his pockets and strolling on.

"'Ey, John, look!" interrupted Ringo softly, pointing at John's feet. The stainless steel suitcase had been dropped there, a letter tied to its handle.

John glanced around furtively before picking it up and untying the letter.

"Congratulations," he read aloud. "As Sophocles said, 'What is unsought will go undetected.' Now, however, we must ask you to seek something again – the combination for the lock on this suitcase."

"But where is it?" interjected Ringo in a loud whisper.

"I'm getting there, I'm getting there!" John shushed him. He continued reading, "As you're in Florence, you may want to see the sights. I suggest you take a bird's-eye view from the centre of things."

Pigeons cooed in the square and fluttered away from a frustrated orange tabby cat. A shopkeeper strolled across the square to reopen his bakery after the midafternoon siesta.

"Is that it?" wondered Ringo.

John nodded. "Well, one thing's clear, at least."

"Really?" asked Ringo. "What's clear?"

"We're going to have to get back into the centre of Florence," replied John.


	6. Sunset Clouds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First off, a note about religion: It's impossible to avoid the Catholic Church in Italy, there's one at practically every street corner! So, it had to end up in this story sometime. However, no matter what religion you're part of (or if you're a member of none at all), everyone can feel the magic of ancient cathedrals. In short: I'm not Christian, but whether you are or not you can appreciate the austere comfort these structures provide and have provided for centuries.
> 
> OK, long controversy-avoiding-disclaimer over! Hope you enjoy this chapter, and thanks to my lovely reviewers: NJ2001, Macca40, ThisBirdHasFlown, MaccasWeirdFriend, Sunderious, Swimmer girl 17, and PurlyandGirly

The evening sun hung low over the clay tiles of the rooftops of Florence. The orange hues of plaster facades, burnt clay, and sunset clouds gently warmed one's skin, like a warm bath or a puffy winter coat. In the centre of the Piazza del Duomo stood the great cathedral of Florence, Brunelleschi's red-brown dome arcing the white cathedral somehow both grandly and comfortingly – a careful hand cupping precious fireflies in the summer twilight.

Under the fresco-covered palm of this hand strolled John and Ringo.

"Echo!" shouted John. The call bounced up from the elaborate marble floor, off the white walls, up to Vasari's fresco on the interior of the dome. Concentric circles of painted gold, blue, and white depicted men and angels in the end of all.

"The clue said something about a bird's-eye view," muttered Ringo, spinning in a slow circle where he stood between the pews. "Think we can get up to one of these windows?"

"That stuff's a load of crap," proclaimed John loudly, pointing at the fresco above. An elderly woman lighting a candle a few paces away shot him a death-glare.

"John! We're in a _church_!" hissed Ringo, horrified.

Though the fires of Hell in the fresco above seemed to condemn John's blasphemy, the church itself passed no judgement. The dying embers of the sun shone through the high windows of the nave, sinking into the cool grey columns and white plaster walls. The elderly woman shuffled away from the candles and knelt in one of the pews. Her murmured prayers leapt up from her shawls to dance in the fading sunlight and beams of dust.

John scratched his nose. "I wonder why they didn't decorate at all in here," he wondered aloud. "D'you think they used up all the money on those statues and stuff on the front of the building outside?"

"We're in the wrong place," muttered Ringo. "There's no staircase here!" He hopelessly collapsed into the pew in front of the elderly woman's and stared up at the austerely peaceful arches of the ceiling above.

"Well, we weren't _supposed_ to come in here," pointed out John. The elderly woman's prayers escalated a little in volume and intensity, as though she intended to drown out his loud remarks.

"What do you mean, we weren't supposed to come in here?" asked Ringo. "And can you keep your voice down a little?"

"Why should I?" inquired John, wandering away from the dome over to the rack of small candles pushed against one wall of the nave.

"I dunno, it sort of . . . ruins the mood, I guess," replied Ringo, staring up at the ornate fresco inside the dome.

John bent over the candles, apparently entranced by the miniscule, dancing flames. They leapt fuzzily in his unaided vision. He squinted at them.

Ringo heaved himself back up from the smooth wooden bench and trudged to John's side.

"So why weren't we supposed to be here?" inquired Ringo quietly.

John shrugged. "Wouldn't the bell tower be the obvious place to go?"

"Of course!" breathed the drummer, staring at John. "Let's go!"

Ringo raced across the nave to the doors at the far end, his Beatle boots slapping the rose, green, and white marble of the floor and echoing throughout the church.

"Come on!" he called, pulling open the door.

On a whim, John delved into his pocket, found a coin, and dropped it into the collection box on the candle rack. The coin thunked against the bottom of the container, the hollow sound rolling across fast-fading beams of soon-to-be resurrected sunlight.

The guitarist followed his bandmate out of the cathedral, whistling. The elderly woman finished her Latin prayers, her wrinkled lips trembling with the last, fading syllable.

...

_The Galleria Palatina, at about the same time_

Two young men with slicked-back hair and Saville Row suits stood before Gottfried Schalcken's painting 'Young Girl with a Candle.'

"She's simply marvelous, isn't she?" inquired one with black hair softly. "Especially in this lighting."

The girl in the painting seemed to laugh in the fading sunshine and shadows of the room, so akin to the oranges and blacks of her own painting.

"Right, let's find the message, then," replied the other, who had blonde hair. He ran his hands carefully along the elaborately gilded frame, confidently at first, then a little more frantically.

The black-haired man glanced around the empty room through his thin, rectangular spectacles. He stared down the row of connecting rooms through their doors for a second: all empty. Only then did he join his companion in running his hands across the picture frame.

The pair exchanged a horror-filled glance. Schlacken's girl smiled in the darkening room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!


End file.
